


I say your uncle was a crooked French-Canadian

by ScarletKilometers



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters: Sun & Moon | Pokemon Sun & Moon Versions
Genre: Blood and Injury, First Meetings, Fluffier than the tags make it sound, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Youthful Stupidity, Guz and Plu were pretty morbid eleven-year-olds, Guzma says fuck a lot, High-Quality Alolan Parenting, Hurt/Comfort, It's like a Meet Cute except fucked up and sad, Minor medical grossness, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Pre-Canon, narrative profanity filter is in effect but rest assured he is saying it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:20:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27374842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletKilometers/pseuds/ScarletKilometers
Summary: "You sit down cross-legged across from this kid who apparently catches pokemon by flinging himself face-first at them and watch him mop the blood off his face off with a wad of gauze wetted from your water bottle as you dig through your first aid kit."Or, Plumeria takes some time out of her island challenge to pull a strange kid out of a pond and tape his face back together. Friendship magic ensues.
Relationships: Guzma & Plumeri | Plumeria (Pokemon)
Kudos: 9





	I say your uncle was a crooked French-Canadian

**Author's Note:**

> _There is a road that meets the road that goes to my house,  
>  and how it green grows there.  
> And we've got special boots to beat the path to my house,  
> and it's careful, and it's careful when I'm there..._

Your name is Plumeria and you are 11 years old and you are sick to death of bugs!

Your entire day has been slogging through mud and waist-deep marshgrass looking for wild pokemon to fight, all because you were dumb enough to underestimate the Brooklet Hill totem pokemon. You knew the captain favored bug-types and thought it would be an easy win. For your dear, sweet Zubat and Salandit, it should have been no trouble at all! But that was before you knew that the totem pokemon was also a water-type. Simply put, you got stomped.

The very second your team was well enough, you turned and came right back out here to train for your rematch, pitting them against any wild pokemon you could find. At the start, there were a handful of other kids out with the same idea as you, laughing and shouting and all challenging each other to friendly battles, but as the afternoon went by they trickled away one by one until the sun’s sinking low in the sky and there’s nobody left except you and one other kid slopping around in the pond. You’ve got nothing to show for your efforts but wet socks and mosquito bites all up and down your arm and you’re just about to give up for the day when the early-evening quiet is shattered with a shout and a string of curse words, followed by loud splashing.

You whirl around to see the kid come up soaked and sputtering, clutching a pokeball to his chest and bleeding profusely from a gash above his right eyebrow. He waves the pokeball at you in greeting. “Did’ja see that?” he grins through a mop of dark, wet curls, cheerfully unaware of the blood dripping down the side of his face.

“you’re bleeding!” you shout back, poking the spot above your own eyebrow. The kid mirrors your movement with a puzzled expression, slowly touching his hand to the cut on his forehead. His eyes go wide at the stains in his fingertips, and he stares, hypnotized as more blood drips and blooms onto his shirt, diluted to pinky-orange by the pondwater.

You rush over, stopping only to drop your shoes, socks, and backpack by the shore before you wade into the pond. The rocks are cold and slimy under your feet, and your Salandit climbs higher and higher up your body to avoid getting wet. You finally pick your way across, Salandit clinging miserably to the very top of your bandana, and reach up to push his hair aside and try to asses the damages as best you can in the dim evening light, “Should we get the trial captain or something? That looks pretty bad.”

That breaks the spell. He wipes his hand on his shirt and shakes his head, sending droplets flying like a wet Stoutland. “Nah, I’ve had worse before.”

 _That_ catches your interest. _“Gross._ Really?”

“Have too! I’ll just rinse off at the Pokemon Center or something, it’s nothing to worry about.”

Somehow, you doubt it. He’ll bleed ‘till his head shrivels up and falls off and it’ll be stupid and _he’ll_ feel stupid for not listening to you when he had the chance. “I’ve got bandages and stuff.” You point to where you left your bag. “I’ll fix your face if you tell me what happened that was worse.”

_“Deal!”_

He lets you lead him to where you dropped your bag. You sit down cross-legged across from this kid who apparently catches pokemon by flinging himself face-first at them and dig through your first aid kit while he mops his face off with a wad of gauze wetted from a fresh water bottle. At this point, the curved shell of a pokemon emerges from the pond, and he pats the grass next to him as what must be his Wimpod takes its place next to its trainer. “Okay,” you say, gesturing with a tube of itch cream, “now talk.”

He shifts one leg out from under him and points out a jagged strip of dark purple scar tissue just below his ankle. “Got this a couple years ago, out in the woods. I found a rock. With my foot.”

You snort and take the gauze from his forehead. It doesn’t look as bad as you’d feared, once all the mud and blood’s cleaned away; a little under an inch long, but deep. You stuff the bloody gauze into a plastic baggy as he continues.

“I mean, it _was_ dark,” he continues, picking up steam. “Mom ‘n dad were yelling about something dumb, okay, so I went out the window so I wouldn’t have to hear it. I climb over the back fence and they never even notice I’m gone.” He shares a conspiratorial grin with you. You grin back and grab your bobby pins.

“Have you ever been in the woods in Melemele at night?” you shake your head and start pinning his hair up so it won’t get in the way. “It’s great. The sounds all mush together and you can’t tell where anything starts or ends in the dark. Can’t see shit, though.”

You laugh and grab an antiseptic wipe. _“Shut up!”_ He bristles, and the Wimpod makes a sound like an angry balloon deflating. “I don’t usually trip over shit! Anyway, that’s not even the good part.”

“Mhm.” You tear the packet. “Hold still, this’ll sting.” With a quick pull-push you pull his face down lower and press the wipe to his head. He squirms and hisses a stream of swear words through gritted teeth. You hold him fast and wipe down the cut, trying to be fast but wanting to be thorough, leaving infection to grow. When you let him go, he yanks his whole body back, red with embarrassment. You stick the old wipe and its wrapper in the trash bag and wait for him to continue.

“So, yeah,” he mumbles, toying with the hem of his shirt, “I fell and busted my foot. Broke my sandal, too.” He looks back up at you with a grin. “Y’know I was more worried about the shoe?”

You snicker. “Seriously?” The sun’s completely gone by now, so you pull your booklight out of your bag and click it on before clipping it to the strap. He squints and flinches from the sudden brightness and his Wimpod skitters behind him.

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing his eyes, “and, this is bad part, I didn’t even notice I was bleeding yet.” He shakes with silent laughter and you do too, bent nearly double and forcing your Salandit to dig her claws into your ears to keep her footing.

 _“How do you not notice that?”_ You gasp out, wiping tears from your face. You pull a pack of three steri-strips out of your kit and hold them to the light. The cut’s small enough that you won’t need the full length; just an inch off the very end should be enough. You reach for the scissors.

“Well, it didn’t start bleeding right away, for one. For two, it didn’t really hurt like cuts’re supposed to. I mean, it hurt like a bitch, but not the right way. Y’know how it feels when you bash your foot against the table or somethin’?” You nod and snip the ends of. “It felt like that, not like somethin’ that bleeds.” You tuck the remains of the decapitated steri-strips in a fresh baggy and stick it back in the kit; there’s still plenty left and you never know if you’ll end up needing them later.

You beckon him forward and he leans in so you can tape the wound closed. “So my shoe was busted and I was already freaking out about that, right? But I wasn’t gonna go home just yet. For one, Mom n’ Dad were probably still up, and no way was I going home to that. For two, I just broke something by bein’ a moron and he was already mad right? He’d lose his shit. So I tried to tie the strap back closed and kept going.” You smooth down first strip. “After a while my shoe started feeling _squishy,_ you know? Kind of like I stepped in a puddle or something.” Two down. “Obviously I didn’t, so I sit down and try to feel out what’s wrong and it turns out my foot’s just _gushing_ blood.” Three. You unwrap a clean pad of gauze

“Then I start freaking out for real, okay? Like, it’s super dark by then, it’s all just shapes and – y’know there’s Bewear in those woods? There are. I know ‘cuz our kahuna fights ‘em to keep ‘em away Not with pokemon, with his actual fists. I’m pretty sure he’s crazy. And I didn’t have this dude with me yet—” he pats the Wimpod’s shell “—so I would have been completely boned if anything had found me then.” You tape the gauze over the cut and smooth out any wrinkles or bubbles.

“So now I’ve gotta get home like that, in the middle of the night and bleeding all over the place, and I’m thinking if anything comes after me I’m gonna have to beat ‘em with a stick.” You start pulling the pins out of his hair. “I thought I saw something a bunch of times, so I screamed and threw rocks like the neighbor kid said to. By the time I got back my leg was too messed up to drag back over the fence without hurting it worse, and then I might bleed on something and mom n’ dad would know I snuck out. They were asleep by then though, so I just went in the front door and rinsed off in the shower. I wrapped my foot up with a bunch of gauze, but I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing, not like you. I think it got infected, there was a bunch of gross stuff oozing out for like a week after the bleeding stopped.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Yuck.”

“Yeah, you know what the worst part is? I found a piece of grass stuck in there like two days later, I think that’s why it wasn’t closing up. I had to get it out with a safety pin dipped in rubbing alcohol.”

“Oh my god,” you squeal, covering your face. “That is _so gross!”_

 _“I know,”_ he laughs, completely delighted by how grossed out you are. “Didn’t I tell you it was worse?”

“Yeah, that was pretty bad,” you agree. “This shouldn’t get gross if you keep it clean, though. I can lend you more gauze and tape if you need it.”

“Oh. Um. Thanks.” He fidgets uncomfortably with the hem of his shirt.

“Did your parents ever find out?”

“Hm? Nah, I could hide the bandage as long as I kept my socks on my shoes were dark enough that I could just rinse ‘em in the sink and tape up the broken strap nobody’d ever know I’d bled on ‘em,” He leans back on his hands, smiling confidently. “The shoe fell apart again at the grocery store and dad kicked my ass for breaking something that cost money, but that was once later. They never found out about the busted ankle, and they never caught me sneaking out after that either.”

 _“Seriously?”_ You can’t imagine your own mother letting you sneak past her like that.

“Mhm. What about you? You got any stories like that?”

“Kind of. I used to be in ballet, right? Before I became a trainer. Did you know ballerinas break their toes a lot?” he shakes his head. “Well they do. A lot. You get hurt if you jump wrong or turn wrong or land wrong and pointe shoes can mess up your feet if they don’t fit right or you don’t know how to dance in ‘em. They make us practice injured a lot and the shoes squish your feet into weird shapes, so a lot of ballerinas have really messed-up feet.”

“Your feet look normal,” he says flatly, squinting at your bare feet in the grass.

“Not _me,”_ you snap, yanking your socks back on, _“Grown-ups._ People who’ve been dancing their whole lives. I don’t do that anymore. _I quit.”_

“I tried to find pictures of what it looks like,” You continue, lacing up your sneakers. “Mom caught me, though. I think she thinks I’m disturbed.”

“How come you know all this stuff, anyway?” he asks, gesturing vaguely at your kit. “Like, medical stuff?”

“Because I train poison-type pokemon,” you answer, pulling Salandit into your lap. “I’ve always liked them. Every species’ venom affects you a different way and I think it’s really cool how you can just look at a dead person’s mouth or skin and already have an idea of what killed them even before you’ve done an autopsy. It always kind of weirded Mom out, though. I think that’s what the ballet was supposed to be for. And the violin. I think she thought I’d start liking things girls are supposed to like and stop talking so much about Scorupi stings.” The kid nods, making a noise of sympathetic disgust, and you continue. “Our kahuna saw me reading about invasive Zubat outbreaks at the library and said I should learn how to make antidotes. Said people are less creeped out by stuff like that if you can use it to help people.”

“Who, Trema?” he asks, leaning in to rest his head on his hands.

“No, _our_ kahuna, Fujiko. On Ula’ula. Anyway, she lent me some books and from there I started learning about first aid and herbal medicine and stuff. I saved up for my own antivenom kit and started practicing with samples from my Salandit. You wanna know something?” he nods eagerly and leans in. “When I was first figuring out how to make antidotes I wanted to test them out to make sure I was doing it right. I didn’t want to be in trouble later and figure out too late that I’d messed it up, you know? So you know what I did?” He shakes his head. You drop your voice lower “I slipped a bit of Salandit venom in my mom’s coffee. Not a whole lot,” you add quickly at his shocked expression, “just enough to make her sick. So she would have been fine even if I messed up the antidote. Anyway, she was throwing up too much to be able to take it. I didn’t really think that one through. And anyway, she made me keep going to ballet after I messed up my ankle the week before, so that probably makes it okay.” He just _looks_ at you, and you’re starting to worry you’ve made a mistake. This kid thinks you’re a creep now like everyone else and now he knows something really bad that you did. You can’t make him keep it a secret, he could go and tell anyone and _your mom_ could find out…

Instead he just nods decisively and says, “She deserved it.” You barely have time to process how relieved you are before he asks, “Is that what made you want to quit?”

You shrug one shoulder. “Mom said if I wanted to be a trainer, that meant I’d have to give up my ballet and violin lessons. I wanted to be a trainer more, so I quit.”

“And she just _let you?_ ” he asks, eyes round as saucers.

“Kind of, yeah. She kept asking if I was really sure I wanted to give that stuff up to do the island challenge and that they wouldn’t still be there if I changed my mind. I think she just didn’t want me to go. Then the kahuna stepped in and said I should go, so she stopped. Everyone always listens to her. The local kids are all afraid of her, I think they think she’s a witch.”

“Is she a witch?”

“I dunno. I hope so, that’d be really cool. I don’t think any of the other islands have witches for kahunas. She does use ghost-types, though. That’s probably the closest thing to being a witch in real life.”

 _“Oh.”_ He sounds _so_ disappointed. “But, yeah, your mom was probably trying to get you to stay,” he rolls his eyes and leans back on his hands. “moms never wanna let their kids leave home. My parents were fine with me doing the island challenge until they figured out it meant leaving the island. Then mom threw a huge fit _\--oh he’s not ready, they’ll eat him alive, he’ll never manage on his own a-bloo bloo bloo--_ and the kahuna said he’d talk some sense into ‘em, but I wasn’t gonna wait for that. I just left.”

 _“You just left,”_ you repeat flatly.

 _“Yep!”_ He’s practically vibrating with excitement. “I packed up before anyone was awake and got on an early ship to Akala, and by the time anyone noticed it was too late, I was free. I already had my amulet, so nobody even thought to stop me.”

“And your parents _never_ caught you.”

“Well, _somebody_ must have snitched, ‘cause that evening my dad called the pokemon center in Heahea so he could yell at me. Then the kahuna called to congratulate me. _Good Initiative,_ he’d said.”

“You really think your parents wouldn’t listen to him?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “I dunno. He’s pretty intimidating, so people usually listen to him. I didn’t wanna risk it, though.”

“That took some guts.” After a pause, you add, “are you going to be here tomorrow? For the trial, I mean?”

“Huh? Oh, I cleared it already.”

 _“Oh, okay.”_ You hope it’s too dark for him to see the look on your face.

“I can help you train if you want, it’s not like I’m in a hurry or anything. And I know some tricks you can use.”

“Deal. What’s your name?”

Uh, Guzma. You?”

“Plumeria. C’mon, we can walk back together.” He nods eagerly and holds out his arm for his Wimpod to climb. It takes its place on his shoulder and he dashes around the pond to retrieve his backpack while you finish packing up your things. He returns to your side and, with the moon blazing overhead and the sky carpeted with stars, you walk back to the pokemon center hand in hand.

Outside, an older kid cracks that you two were on a date and Guzma throws a rock at him.

Yeah, you two are going to be best friends _forever._

**Author's Note:**

> _...And we'll remember this when we are old and ancient  
>  though the specifics might be vague  
> And I'll say your camisole was a sprightly light magenta  
> when in fact it was a nappy bluish grey!  
> July, July, July, it never seemed so strange!_
> 
> _\--July, July! by The Decemberists_


End file.
